Poem of the Day

Isaac Rosenberg's "Expression," written in the years just prior to World War I, is to my mind one of the best of all poems about artistic expression, and is also relevant to a discussion of what we mean when we say "one of the best of."

When we appeal to greatness, interestingness, levels of stimulation and satisfaction derived from the arts, obviously we are appealing to notions that have something in common with chimeras, because there are no truly objective standards in these areas, and every individual's sense of them will be slightly or vastly different. It is difficult to construct an objective aesthetic that covers Michelangelo, Henry Darger, and Andy Warhol.

But that doesn't mean we should stop talking about them in those ways - only that we should recognize the difficulties. I got into an an argument with a philosopher once who said that we should not call John Coltrane "great" because the word "great" has no objective philosophical content.

But not having sharp-cut, definite-edged content is not the same as having no content at all, especially for us noticeably less than sharp and definite human beings.

Rosenberg penetrates into this question:

And in might our song shall roam 

Life's heart, a blossoming fire 
Blown bright by thought, 
While gleams and fades the infinite desire, 
Phantasmed naught. 

Can this be caught and caged? 
Wings can be clipt 
Of eagles, the sun's gaudy measure gauged, 
But no sense dipt 

In the mystery of sense.

Can greatness (one way of thinking of "the infinite desire, / phantasmed naught") be caught and caged, defined objectively in a way that would satisfy my philosopher friend? Of course not; but we can still all admire the flight of the eagle from our individual perspectives (or not admire it, if we choose). There is no sense in trying to clip the eagle's wings, or in spending too much time gauging the sun's gaudy measure. Or, to go for another metaphor, a butterfly pinned to a board is not as beautiful as a butterfly in flight, even though it is easier to inspect.

Attempts to make assessment of the arts more objective or consensus-based - canons, syllabi, awards, Ten Best Lists - are sometimes fun and can be useful in drawing our attention to worthy objects, but they can never really succeed in achieving the hoped-for objectivity.

Using the language of admiration to try the capture the tingle we feel on watching the eagle is perfectly human. Going beyond that to provide superior descriptions of what are necessarily somewhat subjective impressions - as Rosenberg does in this, ahem, great poem - is even better, and is what good critics do.

Call - call - and bruise the air: 
Shatter dumb space! 
Yea! We will fling this passion everywhere; 
Leaving no place 

For the superb and grave 
Magnificent throng, 
The pregnant queens of quietness that brave 
And edge our song 

Of wonder at the light 
(Our life-leased home), 
Of greeting to our housemates. 
And in might our song shall roam 

Life's heart, a blossoming fire 
Blown bright by thought, 
While gleams and fades the infinite desire, 
Phantasmed naught. 

Can this be caught and caged? 
Wings can be clipt 
Of eagles, the sun's gaudy measure gauged, 
But no sense dipt 

In the mystery of sense. The troubled throng 
Of words break out like smothered fire through 
Dense 
And smouldering wrong.  

The Collected Works of Isaac Rosenberg: Poetry, Prose, Letters, Paintings, and Drawings